


fields of gold

by amphibiava (virtueoso), virtueoso



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: (in the most general sense), Dirty Talk, F/M, Grinding, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Thank You Ilderton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-12-26 12:04:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18282089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueoso/pseuds/amphibiava, https://archiveofourown.org/users/virtueoso/pseuds/virtueoso
Summary: In a lull between training blocks, Tessa and Scott find themselves back in Ilderton for the weekend.





	fields of gold

Over her years of travelling back and forth between Ilderton and London, Tessa has learned one thing: Scott’s hometown is a law unto itself. Returning is like stepping through a portal into an alternate dimension, one where everybody wallpapers their hallways with the Canadian flag and invites complete strangers over for the family meal. Sometimes she thinks that fifty years could go by, and Ilderton would still remain the same.

But, despite it all, it’s not until one midsummer weekend in July that she _truly_ appreciates what Scott’s sleepy little town has to offer. They’re given a weekend off for “mental rest” (emphasis on the “rest”, Patrice tells them, with a meaningful look at Tessa, who has a funny habit of filling up her holiday with all the work she’s not able to get done during training). Scott decides to go back to Ilderton to visit his family, and she goes with him, because – well, given the choice between spending the weekend with him, and driving herself slowly mad sitting alone in their apartment in Montreal, she chooses the former.

They spend the day with his parents on Saturday, flipping through old photo albums that Alma digs out from the attic and poking fun at Scott’s haircuts, which are invariably awful. Sunday is kept all for themselves. And at some point during Saturday evening (probably when she’s slightly drunk off the wine they brought for his parents, and the closeness of him, pulled into his lap on the sofa), she agrees to Scott’s suggestion of spending the next day in the wheat fields out by the back of the town.  

In hindsight, she must have been _far_ more than slightly drunk to agree to anything of the sort. She’s never been one to indulge in the majesty of nature – or anything that requires her to leave her nice air-conditioned home. The outside is for taking pretty pictures of, drinking wine on the terrace, and, very occasionally, and only when she has absolutely no other option, running.

It comes as something of a surprise, then, that Sunday in the wheat fields is a thoroughly pleasant experience.

Scott sets out the picnic blanket in a small clearing at the side of an unharvested field, deep enough into the tall stalks of wheat that they’ll be hidden from anyone who walks by, and she kicks off her shoes and settles herself down to sunbathe.

They couldn’t have hoped for more gorgeous weather. Overhead, the afternoon sun hangs high in a cloudless sky, bearing warmth down onto the soil, but there’s a breath of wind in the air; it lifts the heat from her skin, sets the wheat bowing in the breeze. Tessa watches the golden stalks wave, crowns of grain bursting forth from their shoots. This is what home is for Scott, she knows: driving past endless fields of wheat, acres and acres of it, stretching out almost as far as the eye can see. Her hometown couldn’t be more different. London is all urban sprawl and endless suburbia, building blocks of a flat-pack city slotted together. But, she supposes, Ilderton may as well be her home too. It’s his - doesn’t that make it hers also?

She tilts her head towards Scott, needing suddenly to feel him next to her. His eyes are closed, arms crossed behind his head, but he stirs when she leans over to him and presses her lips to his.

“Mm,” he mumbles, smiling against her kiss. “Hello to you, too.”

His hands slide across the thin straps of her dress, gentle at the bare skin of her back. He kisses her just as gently, his lips always in deference to hers, sweet and full.

Sweeping her hair back behind her shoulder, she bears down on him, deepening the kiss. Her teeth nip at his bottom lip – and when he draws in a sharp breath, she uses the opportunity to slide her tongue flat against his. At the back of her head, one of his hands slips up to tangle in her hair.

She could lose herself in the taste of him, she thinks, his mouth salt-sweet and eager, tongue slicking across her own. The sun warms her skin, bright and gentle against her back, but it’s between the two of them that she feels heat – her dress rucking up around her thighs with a rustle of fabric. He makes a low noise, something that might be a groan, the sound lost against her lips.

Suddenly, he freezes.

“Tess,” he stutters out, wide-eyed. “You might – uh, you might not wanna do that.”

She’s momentarily confused, barely aware of her own actions – but she recognises the flush in his cheeks, dusted with pink, and the high, funny twist of his voice; realises that she’s begun to rock her hips against his. The evidence sits neatly against the apex of her thighs, hard and flush.

Strike one for public indecency.

“Oh,” she says, her own cheeks filling with colour. “God, sorry.”

She rolls away from him, onto her back. Her dress is crumpled beyond saving, but she tugs it into place anyway, attempting to regain some shred of decency. When she looks across to Scott again, he’s tilted his head back, staring straight up at the sky. Somehow she doesn’t think that cloud-gazing is a particularly effective way of killing a hard-on, but she guesses that he already knows that.  

After a minute or two, where Tessa decides that the little lump of earth under her left shoulder definitely has to go when she can be bothered to get up again, he lets out a breath.

“Okay,” he says, sounding substantially more composed than a few minutes ago. “C’mere.”

Tessa raises an eyebrow at him. “You sure?”

“I think I can handle sharing a picnic blanket without popping a boner, yeah. Just don’t do that thing again.”

Her eyes widen, the picture of innocence. “What ‘thing’ would that be?”

Scott levels her with an accusatory glare, the one that tells her he’s wise to her bullshit. “You know,” he says, but he opens his arms for her anyway. She nestles herself into the curve of his body, pulling one of his arms around her waist and settling his palm flat against her stomach. His fingers splay across her abdomen, wide and possessive.  

“Mm,” she says, bowing her head forwards to give him better access as he begins to kiss along the dip of her spine, feather-light. “I don’t think I do.”

At her words, his fingers clench against her stomach, and she shivers. She can’t see his face, but she doesn’t need to. It’s easy enough to tell, by the catch of his breath, the way that his lips on her skin carry an edge, that he’s inching past the point of caring about the fact that they’re lying in the middle of a wheat field in a town full of people who would recognise the two of them from their baby photos.

He presses his nose into her neck, breathes her in. “God, Tess,” he mutters against her skin, his voice strung with tension. His fingers dig in tighter. “I want – I don’t-“

She reaches back to slide a hand through his hair, soothing, just as she pushes her ass against him; can feel him there, hard against her again. He gives a muffled groan, burying his nose into the dip of her neck.

Her hips begin to move, back and forth, grinding slowly against him. “There,” she whispers, barely controlled, high on the power of getting him off like this. “Is that it?”

The denim of his jeans bunches, pushes up against the thin fabric of her dress, and she increases the pressure – as much for her own satisfaction as his, the friction making her toes curl.

“Talk to me, Scott,” she reminds him, as she feels him start to rock back into her, his breath coming quicker. “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” he rushes, the words warm against her skin. “Yes, yes, _so_ okay. Keep going.”

Taking his words as permission to continue, she pulls the back of her dress up to her waist, so that there’s nothing between them but his jeans and her underwear, the dark blue silk already damp. He swears softly when he looks down between them. The palm of his hand on her stomach slips lower, down over her hipbones, waiting – until she gives a quick nod, and his fingers slide straight to where she needs him the most. Her underwear is wet there already, but he presses his fingertips against her, almost pushing inside her, the silk stretching under his touch.  

Moaning quietly, she pushes her hips forwards against his hand. They should really put a stop to this at some point – preferably before they reach a level of public indecency that could get them a prison sentence, because that might put a dampener on this whole Olympic comeback thing – but her body is already tensing, coiling tight with anticipation, and he removes his hand only to place his palm at the bare skin of her thigh, tease his thumb under the edge of the silk, and _God_ , she wants his fingers on her, in her, wants his touch chasing the heat of the sun.

But there’s something else she needs to sort out first.

Pushing his hand away, she gets to her knees and swings a leg over him, settling herself just above his hips.

His brow furrows. “Tess, what-?”

“Shut up and put your hands on my hips.”

It’s gratifying to watch him follow orders without the slightest hesitation. His hands cup her hipbones through the fabric of her dress, pressing the thin cotton against her skin. He’s gentle at first, but then, as she slowly grinds herself down into him – _“fuck_ , Tessa,” he hisses, and there’s a burst of pain where his fingers clench, making her smile through gritted teeth.

Even through their combined layers, she can feel how badly he wants this. He would never say it out loud, would never pull the attention away from her, but she’s learned to read his body, his tells. She makes it into an exact science: taking care of him so that he can take care of her.   

Tipping her head back, she moves her hips in small, slow circles, lets the pressure build, creeping and sweet. His palms flatten against her hips, taking hold of her, starting to help her move atop him.  

“Not – not to rock the boat or anything,” he pants, as he pulls her down firmer against his cock. “But do you really want to do this in the middle of a field?”

She lets him thrust up against her, lets him grind fruitlessly against the front of his jeans. “Sure,” she says. “Don’t you?”

“Not exactly what I had in mind for today.”

She twists her hips atop his, revels in the stutter of his breathing, the clench of his fingers as they slip upwards, dig into her waist. “Complaints?”

He bites down on his lip and shakes his head.

Sometimes, Tessa thinks, you have to live a little. And life includes having sex with your boyfriend in the middle of a wheat field in backwater Ilderton. (She’s classy ninety percent of the time. The other ten percent is where they keep the stories that will _definitely_ not be told to any grandchildren.)

As much as she enjoys rutting against him like they’re teenagers again, when he was so afraid of knocking her up that he refused to fuck her, not even when he brought her so close to the edge with his fingers and his mouth that she’d beg for it - there are pressing matters to attend to. Scott’s hips pivot underneath her, his cheeks flushed and pink, chasing the pressure that he can’t find, not with so many layers of clothing still on.

She’ll help him with that.

Quickly, she unbuckles his belt and helps him slide his jeans down to the tops of his thighs – but no further, her hand stilling his when he tries to pull the jeans down the rest of the way.

“Keep it on,” she tells him. “Just in case.”

Evidently she should have kept grinding against him instead of allowing him the mental capacity to talk back, because he raises an eyebrow at her, an incredulous look on his face. “What, you want plausible deniability? Nobody could possibly think we’re fucking if my jeans are only three centimetres below my ass, right?”

Tessa levels him with a cool stare.

“Well, if you’re going to be a smart-ass about it,” she says, and, very deliberately reaches down between her legs, pulls aside her underwear and slides her fingers against herself. She can hear how wet she is, knows he can hear it too. Carefully, she lowers her weight against Scott’s thighs, spreading her legs wide atop his – and then, once she’s satisfied, she pushes one finger inside.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Tess,” he chokes out, and his hands reach for her, but she slaps them away. Serves him right.

“Don’t,” she says, eyes closing as she pushes a second finger inside, her bare toes curling against the picnic rug.

The sounds are obscene; her hips rolling against her hand, against Scott’s thighs, her breath coming in shallow pants. She can feel sweat beading in the dip of her collarbone, knows that there’s nothing Scott would love to do more than raise his head to her skin and lick the salt-sweat from the ridge there.

So if she gets a little performative, moans a _little_ louder than usual when she picks up the pace, it’s really as much for his benefit as it is for hers.

“Tess,” he whines, sounding genuinely wrecked. “Tessa, _please_ , I need to – can I just –“

He squirms underneath her, attempts to press his legs together, but her weight keeps him pinned down. She ignores him, letting her head fall back and her breathing quicken, working herself towards release.

“ _Tessa_ ,” he tries again, and this time his hand creeps up her thigh, fingertips light against her bare skin. Her brow furrows, her eyes snapping open – he’s not usually so quick to break her rules, but – _oh_. When she drags her gaze up along his body, there’s the physical evidence of exactly how desperate he is, the fabric of his boxers tented so hard that it’s a wonder he hasn’t slipped a hand under his waistband to take care of matters himself. His pupils are blown wide, his hazel eyes molten gold under the afternoon sun, face flushed. He looks half-dazed, starved with need.

Gently, she removes her fingers from herself, and shifts her weight until she’s leaning over him, her dark hair falling across her shoulder and onto his body.

“I’ll take care of you,” she whispers, softly, sweetly, dipping her fingers into his mouth, letting him lick them clean, before lowering her head to cover his mouth with hers. He’s so eager against her lips. He opens for her without hesitation, allows her to lick into his mouth so that she can taste herself there on his tongue, tart and sharp.

Sometimes she thinks she could lose herself in the way he kisses her - his cock jutting into the rise of her hip, mouth warm and hot and beautifully sweet, like she’s the last of the summer sun, and he can’t bear to let her slip behind the horizon.

He’s so good to her: always so pliant, so willing to acquiesce to whatever she needs, however she needs him. It’s long past time she returned the favour.

Careful and slow, she slides the flat of her palm along his body, down and under the soft material of his boxers. He tenses – for a moment she thinks she might have pushed him too fast – but all doubts vanish with the noise he makes when she wraps her hand around his cock and squeezes: a low, guttural groan that goes straight to her core, makes her press her thighs tight together and wish she’d let him touch her like he wanted to.

Steadying herself with an elbow propped against his chest, she begins to slide her closed fist along the length of him. He’s wet already, the precome slick against her grip. All she has to do is roll her thumb across the head of his cock, and watch the way his head tips back against the blanket, his teeth digging into his bottom lip.

Smiling, she presses a kiss to his clavicle, settling the weight of her body against him. Her hand continues between them, a twist of her wrist making him shudder.

“Feel good?” she says, quiet. She barely needs to hear the answer, knows it already in the way he strains up against her touch, his hips beginning to rock against the blanket, but she wants to hear him say it.

His voice is impossibly low, hoarse. “So good,” he tells her, just the way he knows she likes. “So fucking good, Tess, your fingers around me, sliding across my cock”. She pulls her hand down to the base of him and slicks it all the way back up, the noise enough to make her blush if she had more presence of mind. “God, _fuck_ , yes, that feels so good, keep doing that.”

His words are like kindling to flame. He likes it when she has her way with him, and she likes it when he tells her exactly how much he likes it - an arrangement that suits them both very well, she’s found.

Keeping one hand at the base of his cock, she circles her other hand at his head, rubbing slowly back and forth. He groans, rock hard against her closed fist. Shadowed by the cover of her body, the head of his cock is pearled and shiny, leaking with every pass of her wrist. She could guide him inside her right now, be finished in a few hard thrusts.

He raises his head to watch her, his gaze fixed on where her hands wrap around him – but only for a few moments, before she slicks both hands roughly from his head all the way to the root, and his eyes screw up tight. His hips thrust up into her grip, shorter, sharper, in a way that tells her he’s circling closer to the edge, that she’d only have to lean down to take him in her mouth and he’d be there.  

But he presses a hand to her wrist. “Your turn,” he manages to get out, a faint smile on his lips. “Else this’ll be a quick finish.”

She pumps both hands languidly along him, once, twice, watching his eyes flutter closed again. If she wanted, she knows she could get him off like this and he wouldn’t say a word more in protest. She could do anything to him, and his body would sing for her regardless.

“Come on, then,” she says, tucking his cock back into his boxers. “Swap.”

Scott grins up at her. “With pleasure.”

In a practiced motion, he helps her push herself up onto her knees and re-adjust until she’s hovering above him, her legs bracketing either side of his head. His arms wrap around the tops of her thighs, steadying her.

She takes a moment to centre herself, breathing deep, letting the tension settle across her skin – before she pulls up the front of her dress, tugs aside her underwear and sinks herself forward over him. His hands slide up immediately to settle on either side of her hips. She can feel his breath on her, warm and damp, tickling.

“Stop breathing so hard,” she tells him, as she places both hands flat and firm against the blanket, braces herself.

Scott huffs a laugh against her – and _God_ , that’s even worse, makes her squirm and shudder in a way that she doesn’t like at all.

“What do you want me to do?” he replies, sounding far too amused for their current situation. She can feel every word against her, strangely intimate. “Keel over and die?”

“No, I just-“

But before she can get the words out, he slides his tongue flat against her, and all speech leaves her. Her entire body tenses, knuckles white and stark, fingers curled into the picnic blanket; she’s utterly at the mercy of the wave of pleasure that sweeps across her, licks at every nerve ending in her body.

“ _Fuck_ , Scott,” she gasps, and his hands grasp at her, pull her down firmly onto his mouth. She can feel his nose pressed against her clit, his breath on her as she begins to rock, short and sharp. He circles his tongue around her entrance, dipping inside just barely, before pressing back flat against her. She could keen with wanting, she thinks, loud enough to let the whole world know. Fuck the wheat fields and fuck secrecy.

He helps her move, his hands guiding her to grind against his mouth, open and panting, every pass of his tongue warm and wet, pushing her higher.

“Inside me, now,” she tells him, pressing a hand over his. He wastes no time; he pushes his tongue inside her at the exact same time that his fingers clench at her hips, his nails digging in – and _oh_ , she thinks that she could die now and die happy.

Her hips buck against his face, urging him onwards, begging him, wordlessly, to bury his tongue so deep in her that she barely remembers her own name. He can feel the intensity of her need, she knows – he drags his tongue against her walls, fills her so perfectly. There’s nothing but him: his mouth and his tongue, pausing only to circle her clit briefly, before pushing back inside her.

The resolve of her command splinters, splits. She could finish herself off like this, thighs spread apart around his face, riding his tongue until she comes.

Her dress flutters down from where she’s pulled it up at the waist, over and across her hips so he’s hidden from view. If someone came across them now, they wouldn’t see his face; they would only see her, delicate blue dress swept neatly around her, fabric rustling, muscled arms trembling with the effort of keeping herself up, skin freckled by the sun but glistening with a sheen of sweat as she rolls her hips forwards and forwards.

The thought of someone coming across the two of them, like this, his tongue buried in her cunt, makes her shudder and moan. The noise comes out all breathy, strange and high.  

“Scott,” she gasps, but he’s so preoccupied that he barely even registers that she’s said his name, keeps licking at her, merciless, until she feels like she might explode. It feels so good, his mouth against her – too good, too fast. She doesn’t want to come like this, wants it to be with him, the two of them together. “Scott, wait, stop.”

His low groan, muffled against her, almost sends her over the edge – she has to grit her teeth and close her eyes, ignore the way she wants to rock against his mouth until she sees stars. But reluctantly, he stills. Relaxing his grip, he lets her shift back down until she’s settled just below his hips. Every move is careful and slow, making her grimace; she’s so sensitive, over-stimulated, the silk of her underwear prickling against her skin.

He can tell, she knows, by the way he waits there, letting her gather herself. The shine of his lips catches her gaze – if she kissed him now, she would taste herself there, salt-sweet on his tongue.

She feels something twist in the pit of her stomach.

There’s no time for teasing anymore. With trembling hands, she slips his cock out from under the waistband of his boxer shorts.

“Together,” she says, quietly – a keyword in more ways than one, and he nods. A few quick strokes and he’s hard against her palm again. She slips her fingers between her legs, gathering the wetness there before spreading it over the head of his cock. He keeps his eyes fixed on her, quiet and still – knows beyond his touch that it’s this intimacy she needs: the connection of his gaze when she brings him inside her.

His hand tangles with hers, keeping her grounded. Carefully, she pulls aside her underwear and sets the head of his cock at her entrance; pushes back against him slightly, enough to feel the stretch of his cock entering her.

It’s her lead to take. He’ll follow whatever rhythm she sets, fuck her just the way she wants.

So she braces herself against their joined hands, pulls her hair back behind her shoulder, and in one, long movement, sinks down onto him.

He moans, loud, and she clamps her free hand over his mouth.

“ _Quiet_ ,” she hisses, but the word hitches when he shifts his hips against hers, enough to push her open around him.

Slowly, she lifts herself up, thigh muscles tensing. She can feel every inch of him drag against her, as she slides up on his cock and then back down again, as deep as she can possibly get. The wet sound of him bottoming out inside her, her ass against his hips, makes him groan against her hand, dig his teeth into his bottom lip. So she does it again – the slow, aching pressure as his head breaches her opening, full and stretched, and she moans, her eyes squeezing shut – followed by the slick thrust as the rest of his cock slips inside.

“ _God_ , that feels good,” he whispers, and she drops her hand away from his mouth. “Keep doing that.”

She does as he asks: slowly at first, careful, the muscles in her thighs complaining from exertion as she sinks herself down onto him. Before long, she pulls at his hands, guides them to her waist.

“Help me,” she says, breathless, needing so much more than she can provide herself. He sets the pace now, thrusting up into her, the breath leaving him in quick, quiet grunts as he helps her fuck herself on his cock. The head of his cock slides against her with every thrust, the width of it pushing her thighs apart, sending shivers of sensation across her skin.

She needs his hands on her; wants the warmth of his touch everywhere, chasing the nerve endings that spark underneath her skin. Teasing her fingers under the straps of her dress, she slips them off her shoulders, one by one. The bodice peels away from her torso, crumpling at her waist, and her breasts fall free in the midsummer heat. They’re fucking in a field, so really, what more does a little public nudity matter? If they’re going to hell anyway, they may as well do the job properly.

Scott thrusts up into her so hard that her entire body shakes. If this hasn’t featured in his dreams at least once, she doesn’t know him as well as she thinks she does.

She’s barely able to form thoughts around the way his hips snap up into hers. There are no slow, careful movements anymore, just the hurried, filthy rhythm of his cock driving into her _,_ slicking against her entrance with every thrust.

One hand splays across the bare skin of her torso, keeping her steady, while the other palms at her breast. His fingers circle around the sensitive peak of her nipple, feather-light, maddening, even as his cock fills her.

“Don’t _tease_ ,” she whines. “Hurry _up_.”

He must sense how much she needs it, because he doesn’t talk back; he simply grazes his fingers across her nipple, testing as she shudders, and then pinches, hard.

“Fuck, yes, _please_ ,” she moans, pushing herself forward into his hand. The sweat drips off her skin now; she can feel it plastering her hair to her bare back, fever all around her: the sun warm on her skin, bathing her in light, Scott’s hands warmer still, and then heat, bright flashes of it, where she rides his cock against the earth.

“That’s it, Tess, just like that, _yes_ , move for me like that,” he says, groaning – and she can tell in his voice now that he’s close too: it’ll be a stream of words from his lips until they both come, until he’s satisfied that she’ll fall over the edge with him. “Can you feel my cock inside you, baby, _God_ , do you know how good you feel? So hot and wet and tight for me, all mine, _fuck_ , yes, do that again, just like that.”

Leaning forwards over him, she picks up the pace, letting him snap his hips up into her, letting him dig his fingers into her – wants them so hard they’ll bruise, purple under the gentle summer sun.

“It’s not-“ she tries, but the breath catches in her throat, her chest heaving. “I can’t – Scott, it’s not enough, I need-“

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he says, automatically, knowing what she needs without her even having to say it. He pushes her legs wider apart around him, tilts his hips so that he’s thrusting into her with greater force, harder – but still, it’s not there. “How’s that, is that good?”

She could cry from frustration; knows no language anymore, her entire body trembling like a live wire, so ready for the release that she can’t find. “Fuck, it’s so-“ she gasps, her hand clutching at his, hips still rolling into him. “It’s not – deeper, I need you deeper,  _please_.”

“Okay, okay, baby, it’s okay,” he rushes. “Here, let me try this – just lift your hips like that, Tess, that’s it, let me-“

And in one movement, he has her on her back against the blanket, one leg lifted over his shoulder, the other pressed down into the ground with a palm at her thigh. Her dress is nothing more than a crumpled gathering of fabric at her waist. It feels almost too open, too exposed, her bare foot hooked around the back of his neck. But then his other hand slips up to hold her ankle steady at his shoulder, and he thrusts into her in one, long movement – so full and deep that she forgets how to breathe for a second, forgets that anything else exists but her and Scott and the stalks of golden wheat waving gently around them.  

He pulls out, all the way, and slides back in, his cock making filthy noises as it enters her.

“Better?” he gasps, and she simply nods, her head falling back against the blanket, entire body arching against his. She can feel all of him; every inch, molten and warm.

This is how they should be, all the time, she thinks; his body flush against hers, buried inside her, her hand knotted into the hair at the back of his head, urging him onwards. He thrusts into her, faster and faster, his breath coming in short, low moans, her name mingling with the summer breeze.

“Tess, fuck, yes, push yourself a little wider for me,  _that’s_ it-“

He brings his hand down from her ankle to rub at her clit, knows it’s what she needs to take her over the edge; his cock deep inside her, stretching her out, hips snapping up to the cradle of hers, so hard that her body shakes with every thrust.

The warmth of the sun has nothing on the two of them, she thinks – heat sparking everywhere he touches her, the press of his fingers against her clit, slick and wet. She gasps out a moan, can feel him shudder above her, knows he’s holding on for her, waiting for her. They’ll come together, like always, like they should do; and she feels the sun pricking at her eyelids as she closes them, lets the feeling of him overtake her, drive the flush into her body.

“Come on, Tess, you’re there, so close,” she can hear him mutter, leaning forwards to pepper the bare skin of her torso with kisses; her collarbone, her breasts, her clavicle, wherever he can reach. Her leg is pressed so far back now that it’s almost by her head, and she feels more open, more full that she can ever remember, the pressure of it so much, his body surging atop hers, if he would just – just, all he needs to do is –

He fastens his mouth at her pulse and bites, hard.

The world melts away into nothing; sunbursts of heat exploding, like every line of her body is a trigger wire, and he’s set them off all at once, trembling. She can vaguely feel his tongue at her neck, swiping across the mark of his teeth, and the snap of his hips, stuttering, groaning, and then – her name lost to the wind as he finds release inside her.  
  


* * *

  
Afterwards, they lie next to one another on the picnic blanket, basking in the afterglow of the sun as it begins to slip beyond the horizon. Scott chatters on about something inconsequential, his voice a steady rumble against her skin, soothing.

In the first few months of their relationship, it used to freak her out – the way he’d talk and talk afterwards, wouldn’t let her just jump out of bed and get on with her life. She thinks it’s something to do with his restlessness, with the comedown after being so hyper-aware of every single muscle in both his body and hers. She can blink out like a light. Scott needs to wind himself down, needs the anchor of her body next to his.

It doesn’t bother her anymore. To be perfectly honest, she likes it: the feeling of being needed by him. If she ever took the time to sit down and psychoanalyze their sex life (although she won’t, and never, ever will, because the thought of what she might uncover within herself terrifies her), she would bet any amount of money that most of the things she likes so much about sex with him revolve around being, or being made, necessary.

So, when Scott passes a hand across her back, indicating she should pay attention to the next bit, she humours him.

“That was really fucking hot,” he says. “Just so you know.”

Tessa yawns, eyes closed. She lies flat on her stomach, head pillowed on her folded arms, warm and content and languid, all the tension fucked out of her. “Mm. Thanks. I try.”

“Up there in the top three times we’ve ever had sex, for sure.”

She feels somewhat put out by whatever previous Tessa had going for her.

“Only top three? What do I need to do next time, wear a cowboy hat for the whole thing?”

“Nah,” Scott says, and she can’t see his face, but she knows he’s got that grin on his face, the one that he thinks is a smirk but really makes him look like a Machiavellian villain who ought to be twirling a moustache and plotting the deflowering of virgins. “Although, if you’re _offering_ …”

Tessa cracks one eye open.

“Right. Tabled for my birthday. Got it.”

“Go on, then,” she says, as much to get him to drop the cowboy hat thing as anything else, because God knows that once Scott has it in his head to do something, he’ll never let it go again. “Your top three. No, wait, be adventurous. Top five, in no particular order. What are they?”

Scott pauses for a moment, thinking, then holds a hand up in the air above him, ticks them off one by one on his fingers. “Okay. One, today. Easy. Two, that time you bought us a Loge suite at the Scotiabank Arena and I didn’t see a minute of the whole game. Still, to this day, the only match I’ve ever missed.”

Tessa doesn’t need the reminder. Those tickets remain the biggest waste of money she’s ever suffered – although it _was_ gratifying to know that she ranked higher on Scott’s priority list than his beloved Leafs; particularly, she suspects, when she made the point of telling him that if he wanted to slip his hand under the oversized hockey sweater she borrowed from him, there’d be nothing in his way.

Given it was his birthday, she supposes the fact that the evening made it to his top five is worth the price of admission.

“Three?” she prompts, when he doesn’t continue.

He frowns. “I’m not sure. It’s a toss-up between last New Year’s, and that whole week after your trip to Paris, when you decided that you were gonna come back with a shedload of really expensive lingerie instead of, like, an “I Heart Paris” baseball cap.”

“It’s top five, Scott, you can have - wait, the night of the New Year’s party at Danny’s place? Your _mother_ almost walked in on us!” Tessa explodes, scandalised.

“It was funny!”

“I thought I was going to be _disowned_ , Scott! I thought I was going to have to look into Alma’s eyes and come up with some explanation for why I was kneeling in the washing closet with her son’s pants around his ankles!”

Scott simply grins at her, his face devoid of empathy. “But it was _really_ funny though, eh?”

Tessa shakes her head in disbelief. “Hurry up and pick number five. God help you, it better not be anything to do with your mother.”

“Nah,” Scott says, still smiling – but there’s an edge of fondness to it now, a gentle warmth. “Number five is the very first time. The first _proper_ time, anyway. That weekend after we came back from Autumn Classic, in the shitty little hotel room in Vancouver, and we were both so wiped that we could barely do anything.”

“ _That_ made your top five? Didn’t I go straight to sleep after? Did you even come?”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

Tessa pinches him in the side.

“Ow, hey! Relax, I enjoy being at your beck and call. Anyway, it wasn’t even about the sex that time. We were just happy, you know? Things had been complicated for so long, and then suddenly they just… weren’t. It all made sense. Like all the little puzzle pieces falling into place.”

If he hadn’t just made her come so hard that she forgot the outside world existed, she would tell him that _technically_ it can’t make his top five list if it’s for reasons _other_ than the sex. But she’s feeling pleasantly and surprisingly content about the whole thing.

“You’re a sap,” she says, fondly, and reaches out a hand to pat the side of his cheek; he tilts his head into it on instinct, his eyes crinkling at the corners with a smile.

“Yup. Guilty as charged.”

Smiling, she settles herself back down onto the blanket, head nestled atop her folded arms. Scott turns to lie on his side, tracing patterns across her bare back.

“Y’know, if a combine harvester ran over us both right now, I think I’d be cool with that,” he mumbles, as his fingers slip lazily along the ridge of her spine. “Pretty sure this is the peak of my life anyway. It’s all downhill from now on.”

Tessa, not quite as blissed out as the man lying next to her, raises her eyebrows. “Speak for yourself. I like all of my limbs firmly attached to my body.”

“Overrated.”

“What, having all your limbs? I know _you_ might think you’d get along fine with just a dick and a set of abs, Scott, but life is tough-“

He cuts her off with a hand at her jaw, tilting her head towards him, and he’s grinning by the time he presses his lips to hers. His mouth is too soft, she thinks – unfairly so. A mouth like that has no business doing anything but staying pressed against hers.

So she lets him deepen the kiss, languid, lets him roll her over onto her back so he can part her thighs with his knee, slot his hand against the curve of her waist and press her down into the blanket.

“We’re not having sex again,” she tells him, when he pulls away to catch his breath. “I’ll be sore tomorrow.” – and he grins at her, flippant.

“I know. I just like kissing you.”

And, she finds, she has no complaints about that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So I guess this is what happens when you get sick of waiting for your own slowburn fic to boil over. 
> 
> Thank you to the usuals - you know who you are! Also thank you to whoever decided that AO3 needed a 'Thank You Ilderton' tag. Sorry for corrupting it with filth. 
> 
> Given how much fun this oneshot was to write, you may be seeing more of Scott's Top Five!


End file.
